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Title: Charity's birthday text

Author: Agnes Giberne

Release date: June 26, 2025 [eBook #76384]

Language: English

Original publication: London: The Religious Tract Society, 1882

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHARITY'S BIRTHDAY TEXT ***

Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.

CHARITY'S BIRTHDAY TEXT.

CHARITY'S

BIRTHDAY TEXT.

BY THE AUTHOR OF

"Willie and Lucy at the Sea-Side,"

"Hungering and Thirsting," Etc.

[Agnes Giberne]

LONDON:

THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY

56, PATERNOSTER ROW; 65, ST. PAUL'S CHURCHYARD; AND

164, PICCADILLY.

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER I.

CHAPTER II.

CHAPTER III.

CHAPTER IV.

CHAPTER V.

CHARITY'S BIRTHDAY TEXT.

CHAPTER I.

IT was little Charity Mitchel's tenth birthday. Poor Charity had no mother. Mrs. Mitchel had died many years before, and ever since then Charity had lived in London with her father and her only brother. Edwin—a timid, delicate little fellow—was two years and a half younger than herself; and he was very fond of Charity, who was a warm-hearted, unselfish sister. Their father was usually away all day at his business in the city, but they had a kind nurse to take care of them in his absence, and a governess for some hours every morning.

Charity's birthday was quite an event in the quiet household. And though some little girls might think her presents few in number, Charity was more than satisfied, and declared that they were the loveliest things she had ever seen in her life. There was a pretty little workbasket from her father, and a storybook from Edwin—the result of many weeks' saving, and a marker from nurse, besides something else which Charity did not at all expect. She was quite surprised when a fourth parcel was put into her hand, and her father said, with a smile—

"From Edwin and me together, my little Charity. I could not resist getting it for you."

Charity opened it almost trembling with impatience. When the paper was removed, there lay before her an illuminated card, framed and glazed. First there was a very handsome red and gold "Charity," at the top, and beneath it, "Suffereth long, and is kind," in dark letters, with a delicate blue scroll running around and about them.

THE PRESENTS.

"Oh, how lovely! How kind of you!" Charity exclaimed, clasping her hands. "Dear papa, how very, very pretty it is. I can't thank you enough. But, Edwin, you could not have painted this?"

Edwin nodded in silence.

"Yes, the colouring is his work," said Mr. Mitchel. "I saw the card in a shop the other day, and your name at the top drew my attention. Then I remembered how handy my little boy was with his paint-box, and it struck me that if he could manage to colour it nicely, you would like to have it."

"I've worked hard at it in the mornings, before breakfast," remarked Edwin. "Sometimes I was so frightened for fear I should spoil it."

"I could not have done it so well," said Charity. "But then I never can illuminate as you can. I believe I am not patient enough. Papa,—" and she paused a moment, looking earnestly at her new treasure—"did you choose it because you thought I wanted that text?"

"I was not aware that you wanted it," replied Mr. Mitchel, smiling. "However, I am glad you have it, if such was your wish."

"I don't mean that, papa, I mean did you give it me because you thought it would do me good?"

Mr. Mitchel patted her head, and rejoined gravely, "Well, dear, whether I thought so or not, it certainly is a text from which we may all learn something."

"I think it just like Charity," said Edwin. "She couldn't have a better name."

"Oh no, it isn't like me," said Charity, quickly. "But I was thinking—papa, I don't think it is a text that does suit me just now, because I really haven't anything at all to 'suffer;' everybody is so kind to me."

"But you have to be kind to people, and you are," said Edwin, eagerly. "You are always kind."

Mr. Mitchel drew Charity to him, and kissed her flushed cheek.

"God has given you a happy, loving spirit, my little girl," he said, "and you ought to be very thankful for it. You may, however, some day, be in a less peaceful home than now, and perhaps then you will find our little present more suitable than now—though in a measure it must be suitable to every one in whatever condition of life."

Ah, poor little Charity! How far was she from dreaming how soon the change would come. She smiled in reply, remarking, "I hope that won't be for a long, long time, papa. I think it would be very hard to bear unkindness."

"Very hard. But remember, darling, that nothing overcomes unkindness like charity—that is, 'love'—the love which can 'suffer long and be kind;' the love which can make us 'forgive even as we are forgiven.'"

There was a slight pause, and then he added, cheerfully—

"But we have no business to be talking of unkindness on your birthday, Charity. I hope you will have some merry games with Edwin. I intend to be back by five o'clock this evening, so that we can have an early tea all together, and a long merry evening afterwards."

Charity threw her arms round his neck with warm thanks, and Edwin looked no less pleased in his quiet way.

It was now time for Mr. Mitchel to leave the house, but the children were at no loss for occupation, although no governess was coming that morning. First there were the new presents to examine and re-examine, and the new book to read. But Charity felt too happy to settle down quietly to so sober an employment as reading, so she and Edwin ran out into the garden for a game of play.

It was bright weather in the end of May, very warm for the time of year, but the little garden was shady, so they did not find it too hot. It was only a square piece of ground, with a round bed in the centre of a grass plot, and high walls all round, and a clump of small trees at the farther end. But Charity had never known a better one, so she and Edwin were very fond of their "playground," as they called it.

The trees, indeed, formed a very favourite retreat at all times. And when the sunshine came creeping more and more into the garden, they went to the shady end, and sat down together on a low bench. Then Charity fetched her new book, and between talking and reading aloud the hours passed very pleasantly until dinner-time.

After dinner, nurse took them out for a long ramble into the country. They had a great many streets to pass through first, but at length they reached some nice shady lanes and green fields, where they enjoyed themselves greatly.

Charity, being the Birthday-Queen, was allowed to choose where she would go, and her choice fell on "cowslip-field," as they called a large meadow where cowslips were very abundant. Nurse feared they would all be over, but by dint of a long close search, they actually found enough to make a very nice little round yellow ball. Nurse had a piece of string in her pocket, and while Charity and Edwin held it stretched out, one at each end, she hung the pretty bright flowers upon it, then drew the string and tied it tight. When that was done, it was time to think about returning home.

Charity and Edwin agreed that the birthday had been a very happy one so far, and felt sure the evening with dear papa would be still happier.

But five o'clock came, and no papa made his appearance. It was perplexing, for the children had never before known him fail to keep his word. It was not often that he promised to return home early, but when he did, he always managed to come back punctually at the time mentioned. A cloud came over Charity's face as the minutes flew by—not a cloud of temper but of disappointment. For they must go to bed at eight o'clock, and every minute's delay would shorten the pleasant evening they had hoped for.

Edwin tried to comfort her by remarking:—

"I dare say he'll be here directly, Charity. It's only half-past five. And perhaps for once he'll let us sit up till half-past eight. I'm almost sure he will."

"I can't think what has kept him," said Charity, looking sadly out of the window. "Papa always comes home early when he says he will."

"But perhaps he couldn't," began Edwin.

"Of course he couldn't," said Charity with a sigh. "He would have come if he had been able. But that doesn't make it any the better."

"He'll be here soon," said Edwin, cheerfully. "There's somebody's footstep on the pavement,—no, it isn't papa. But I dare say they had some stoppages in the city, so the omnibus is late."

"I wonder if it has yet gone past the end of the road," said Charity. "Edwin, I wish you would ask nurse to come here. It will make the time go faster. Would you mind, dear?"

Edwin jumped up readily, but at this moment nurse came in.

"I'm afraid, Miss Charity, your papa wasn't able to come so soon as he expected," she said, kissing the little girl's anxious face. "It's very tiresome for you on your birthday. But I've seen two omnibuses go by, from the nursery window, and now there isn't another he can come by until his regular one at seven."

Tears rose in Charity's eyes, and Edwin came close to her.

"Come now, Miss Charity, you mustn't be sorrowful on your birthday," said nurse, smiling. "That will never do. Your papa would have come if he could, and as he wasn't able we must make the best of it. Come along and have tea with me, and by-and-by you shall look out for him again."

"It won't be the same—we shall hardly have any time with him," said Charity, mournfully, "at least, only our usual hour."

"I'll ask him to let you have another half-hour, Miss Charity. I'm going to tell you stories all tea-time, and seven o'clock will come before you know what you are about."

Charity felt ashamed of looking sorrowful any longer, when they were both so kind to her. With a great effort she shook off her dull, disappointed feeling, wiped away her tears, and taking Edwin's hand, ran into the dining-room, where tea was laid out. They had a merry meal all together, and when it was over they went out into the garden to water the flowers—nurse still telling stories—till Charity was quite startled to hear the clock strike seven.

But still no Mr. Mitchel came. The omnibus went by, and he was not in it. Even nurse began to look grave, though she still treated it lightly, and said he must have been detained by business. But poor little Charity's heart sank very low. She felt sure that no business of ordinary importance would keep him so late, especially when he had said he would be home early. It was no longer possible to keep up her spirits.

A quarter-past seven came—then half-past—then a quarter to eight—then eight—and still no Mr. Mitchel! The two children sat together in the window, gazing out into the street, Edwin holding his sister's hand, and Charity's tears dropping steadily. Nurse stood by them, watching no less anxiously. She had never known her master return so late before. What could be the reason?

"It is bed-time," she began, when the clock struck eight. "Miss Charity, don't you think you had better come upstairs, and I'll let you know the moment he is here?"

"Oh no, no! Not till I have seen him," said Charity, imploringly.

And for the first time little Edwin's eyes were full of tears.

"I never went to bed before without kissing him on my birthday. Please, please don't let us go till he comes."

Nurse did not mention the subject again for a while. She felt that it would be almost cruel. "What 'could' have kept him?" she asked herself again and again. But to find an answer was beyond her powers.

Neither of the children spoke, but they clung more closely together as the minutes crept by. Gradually the daylight faded away, and after a long silence they were startled by the sudden striking of the clock—nine distinct strokes. Nurse bent over Edwin, whose eyes were closing heavily.

"You mustn't sit up any longer, my dear," she said, gently. "Come, Master Edwin, something must have kept your papa in London. After all there's no reason why he shouldn't be sleeping there. Miss Charity, dear, I'll let you wait one more half-hour, and then you must go too."

Charity only shivered in answer. Edwin kissed her, and went away with nurse. Charity sat alone in the dim twilight, oppressed by a nameless dread.

"Oh, papa! Papa!" she murmured once or twice.

And then she tried to pray, but no words would come.

She felt dull and stupefied. And as the moments passed, and nurse did not return, she sank into a kind of heavy doze, with her head leaning against the window.

Suddenly she was roused to full consciousness by the opening of the hall-door, followed by confused sounds in the passage, a man's gruff voice, and a faint scream from nurse. Trembling, she raised herself, but did not move from her place. And after a few seconds of suspense there was the glare of a candle dazzling her eyes, and nurse standing by her side, looking, oh, so strange and pale!

Charity turned quite white herself, and tried to ask what was the matter, but the only word she could utter was, "Papa!"

"Miss Charity! Oh, my poor little darling!" And nurse clasped Charity tightly, in an agony of tears. "My poor, poor child!"

"Nurse, where's papa?" asked Charity, hoarsely.

But nurse only sobbed in answer, and Charity tried to disengage herself.

"Please let me go, nurse. I must see papa!"

"Not yet—not yet! Oh, how shall I tell you? Poor Miss Charity!—Poor Master Edwin! Who will take care of you now?"

"Nurse, is papa hurt?" asked Charity, quite steadily. "Please tell me."

Ah, poor nurse! No wonder she shrank from revealing the terrible truth—the sad, sad truth that Charity and Edwin were orphans. In crossing a crowded street Mr. Mitchel had been thrown down, the wheels of a heavy cart passing over him. And when he was taken up, life was almost gone. One murmured message of love for his little ones, and all was over.

Poor Charity! Poor Edwin! The stroke was indeed a fearful one. Charity was slow to understand what had happened, but nurse never forgot the wild cry of anguish with which the truth at length gained entrance to her mind.

CHAPTER II.

CHARITY and Edwin had very few relatives. Their father had lost all his brothers and sisters in early life. There was only their mother's sister, who had for many years been married and settled in a distant part of England. She was written to at once about Mr. Mitchel's sad and unexpected death. And her husband, Mr. Hawke, at once travelled to London, to be present at the funeral, and to take his little niece and nephew home with him. Ill-health prevented Mrs. Hawke from coming with her husband.

Poor Charity! How she dreaded the first sight of her strange uncle! How she shrank from the first sound of his voice!

Nor was the first sight of him such as to cheer her. He was a tall, stout man, with a somewhat harsh face and sharp manner. He was not wanting in kindly feelings towards the little orphans, and he really wished to set them at their ease, but his quick loud voice terrified Edwin, and made Charity long for her father's gentle tones. Mr. Hawke had not intended to alarm them, but he did not know how to speak to shy, timid children. And they soon crept away from him to nurse, where they sobbed out their sorrows together.

"Oh, nurse, he isn't the very least like dear papa," said poor Charity.

"I wish, oh, I wish he had never come!"

"My dear, that isn't right," said nurse, tenderly. "He'll give you a home, and you ought to be very thankful for that. You'll be well taken care of—please God," she added, reverently.

"I don't like him—I can't go with him," said Edwin, clinging to her arm with fast-falling tears. "He speaks so loud;—oh, nursie, let us stay with you."

"So I would with all my heart, if I had a home to offer you," said nurse, fondly. "My poor little ones!" she added, sadly. "It's a bitter grief for you both. But there now, Miss Charity, don't you cry so. You'll be very happy in a little while with your cousins and your aunt. Why, she's your own mamma's sister."

"I shan't be happy—I can't without papa," sobbed Charity. "I shall never be happy again."

"That isn't what your dear papa would have liked you to say, Miss Charity. Don't you think he would wish you to be happy?" She stroked back the damp disordered hair from Charity's brow as she spoke. "I know it's very hard; I've gone through it all myself. But you mustn't forget that your dear papa is in heaven, with the Lord Jesus Christ. And you must try now to do the things that he would like, if he were still here."

Charity's head dropped sadly on nurse's knee.

"Ah, if I could!" she murmured. "But I will try—I will try."

"And may be, dear Miss Charity, you will find many things in your new home not like what we have here. Things won't go so smoothly, perhaps, and then you'll find it trying to the temper."

"My birthday text!" Charity interrupted with a sob. "Papa said I should want it more some day. Oh, I will try—I will try, nursie. But I do want papa so very, very much. Oh, if I had only known that morning that I should never see him again! Oh, papa—dear papa!" And throwing herself into nurse's arms, the poor child wept long and bitterly,—wept, till from very weariness her tears ceased to flow, and she fell asleep.

Two days after this the funeral took place, and the following day Mr. Hawke desired that speedy arrangements should be made for the return journey. Parting with nurse and leaving their old home was a great trial to both the children.

They paid a farewell visit to every spot in the garden, and every corner in the house. But Charity's pale cheeks, when it was over, made nurse doubt her own wisdom in allowing such a tour.

The last moment came, and patting kisses were somewhat roughly cut short by Mr. Hawke, who was in great fear of being late for the train, and also much dreaded tears. He did not take the best means to check them. Edwin looked only bewildered and distressed, but Charity sobbed all the way to the station, and long after she was seated in the quickly-moving train.

It was a melancholy journey to them both, of many hours' duration. Mr. Hawke spoke to them every now and then, and handed them plentiful supplies of buns and sandwiches, but otherwise he left them very much to themselves. At length the train stopped at a small country station, and Mr. Hawke started up, hurried them out on the platform, and secured their luggage. Then they went to the back of the station, where a small chaise was waiting. The two children were helped into the little back seat, Mr. Hawke took his place in front beside the driver, and in another moment they were trotting down a narrow green lane.

"How pretty!" Edwin whispered; and Charity nodded.

The fresh evening breeze, the bright rays of the setting sun, and the fair beauty of the country around, all combined to give her a feeling of quiet enjoyment, despite the weight of sorrow at her heart. Mr. Hawke looked back at them after awhile.

"So you like this, little ones?" he said in his blunt tones, which Charity was beginning to think less rough than she had at first imagined. "Worth a hundred of London streets!"

"It's prettier," said Charity, her throat swelling at any allusion to the old home.

"And you will like it better in every way before long, or I am much mistaken. Have you ever been in the country before?"

"Not country like this," said Edwin. "We've been often to the parks. And once we went to the sea-side."

"That's a different thing," said Mr. Hawke.

He turned away again as he spoke, and left them to themselves during the remainder of the drive.

Presently they drew near a small country house, and at the gate Charity could see a girl and two boys—the former seeming to be about her own age, and the latter, one older, one younger. They stood looking on as the chaise stopped, and the children were lifted down, till Mr. Hawke called out:—

"Here, Lottie, come and see after your cousins. Boys, you had better take Edwin under your care."

Lottie, a pretty, lively, but somewhat untidy little girl, stepped forward and kissed them both. George, a tall lad of twelve or thirteen, shook hands carelessly; and Wilfred, a stout boy about nine years old, followed his example. They both looked, half in surprise and half with disdain, upon Edwin's small slight figure and pale timid face. His little cold hand was clasping Charity's, and she held it tightly, despite George's audible whisper,—

"What a baby! He looks fit for nothing but to be tied to his nurse's apron-strings."

"Mamma told me to bring you into the house," said Lottie. "She can't walk easily, you know."

Charity knew, though she had just then forgotten, that her aunt was lame, and much confined to the sofa. She followed Lottie in silence, still pressing her little brother's hand. But the first glimpse of the sweet face that awaited them in the drawing-room swept a load from Charity's heart. She felt from that they had found a friend, and she sobbed aloud with the very relief, as she found herself clasped in her aunt's arms.

"Poor child!" Mrs. Hawke said softly once or twice, while with her disengaged hand she patted and caressed Edwin's cheeks. "Come, don't cry so, Charity. You must both be very happy here. It is to be your home, you know."

"I wouldn't let papa come in and find you crying, if I were you," said Lottie, in the quick, almost sharp tone that was so like her father's. "He doesn't like tears, does he, mamma?"

"He generally thinks little girls have something better to do than to cry," said Mrs. Hawke, smoothing down Charity's hair. "Suppose you run upstairs with Lottie, and take off your things, and bathe your eyes, while I make friends with Edwin. When you come down again we will have tea."

"I hear your box being taken up now," remarked Lottie. "You are going to sleep in my room, Charity. Come along," and seizing her cousin's hand she ran quickly upstairs.

The bedroom that they entered was airy and light, with a bunch of flowers on the table, the very sight of which had a soothing effect upon Charity. Lottie ran away for a few minutes, and she was not sorry for a little quiet time, in which to collect her thoughts.

She leaned out of the window, looking up into the wide expanse of clear blue sky, with the soft breeze blowing her hair away from her forehead. And gradually the sorrowful feeling and the tendency to cry gave way to a quiet, peaceful trust. Lonely, orphaned, sad, she still was. And she felt even more than she had hitherto done that she might have many trials to undergo in her new home, much to try her pride and her temper, much that might tend to draw her away from her dear Saviour.

Yet Charity remembered the promise of that loving Saviour,—

"I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee."

And it was a great comfort to her. "I must not forget it," she thought. "I will pray that I may not. Nurse told me I must never forget to pray; and dear, dear papa always said that was the first thing that we were inclined to be careless about. And I must try not to seem dull and unhappy, for darling Edwin's sake. I do think dear Aunt Lottie will love me. I ought to be very thankful for such a kind, sweet aunt. I never expected to like her so much. I'm afraid the boys are not so nice. But I must try not to be angry with them, even if they do say unkind things. I must try hard to 'suffer long and be kind.' And the only way is to pray for help. I will not forget that."

With these and many more such thoughts, Charity stood by the window for nearly ten minutes, unaware how time was going. She was roused by a touch, and found Lottie standing by her side.

"Are you dreaming, Charity? I thought I should find you ready for tea."

"Oh, I am sorry!" exclaimed Charity, looking distressed. "I was thinking, and I quite forgot. But I have only to take off my boots and smooth my hair."

"Never mind; there's no hurry," said Lottie. Something in her cousin's face touched her, for she came close to her, and said in a manner quite different from her usual abrupt quickness, "Charity, I hope you will be happy here. I really am glad to see you, only it isn't my way to say much."

Charity's arms were round Lottie's neck in an instant. "Are you really glad? Oh, Lottie, will you love me, and be my sister? I never had a sister."

"I'll try," Lottie replied, gravely. "I never had one either. Only I know I shall be cross to you sometimes, because I can't help it. You mustn't mind when I am, because it is my way when I am provoked."

"I hope I shall not provoke you," said Charity, gently. "I want to be kind—and to bear things."

"There are some things that one can't bear," said Lottie, decidedly. "You don't know what it is to have brothers like George and Wilfred—noisy, romping, teasing fellows. I expect you will hate the sight of them before you have been here a week."

"Oh, I hope not," said Charity, surprised and shocked that Lottie could speak in such a way of her brothers.

"You don't know them," repeated Lottie. "Nobody can manage them except papa,—and mamma always keeps them good when they are with her, but not when they are away from her. But I mean to try and defend you from them."

"Thank you," said the little girl, slowly and thoughtfully. "But perhaps—perhaps the best way would be—" she hesitated a moment, and then added, in a lower tone,—"'Charity suffereth long, and is kind.'"

"That's a text," remarked Lottie. "Mamma sometimes talks like that, but it really is of no use to be kind to the boys. The more you bear, the more they provoke you."

Charity did not argue the point, though she was not convinced. Lottie now took her downstairs, where Edwin was still seated by his aunt's side, chatting more freely than Charity could have expected so soon after his arrival among those who really were strangers to him. The boys were very quiet and subdued in their father's presence, and altogether the little orphans' first evening in their new home was a peaceful one.

Mr. Hawke did not pay them much attention, but when he noticed them, it was done kindly. Mrs. Hawke's gentle ways won both their hearts at once, and Lottie's manner was warmth itself.

Both children were too tired that night for any walking out of doors, and they went to bed early. Charity did not forget, when she knelt by her bed, to thank her heavenly Father for guiding them to a home, where, if they could not quite expect the peace and happiness to which they had been accustomed, they would not be without care and affection. Earnestly too did she pray for grace and strength to continue in the right way, and for a spirit of love to bear with all trials and vexations that might cross her path.

CHAPTER III.

FOR some days things went on very quietly in Charity's new home. The gentle little girl soon made herself loved by all around her. Before long even Mr. Hawke's rough voice softened, when it was addressed to her, while Lottie was quite devoted to her new sister. Charity became very fond of Lottie, but still her happiest time was when seated by her aunt's side, sometimes reading or talking, but at other times with her face leaning against the sofa, and her tears dropping steadily as her thoughts roamed over all that she had lost. The tears were a relief to her, but Mrs. Hawke never allowed them to continue too long. Not that Charity was always in such low spirits. It would have been strange, at her age, if this had been the case. Sometimes the grief and the longing to see her father again were almost overpowering, but at other times she was very happy in a quiet way.

Charity had troubles to bear in this now home. Even Lottie, kind as she usually showed herself, was often a trial. She was somewhat wilful and passionate; and Charity, who had been so much accustomed to have her own way, found it not a little difficult to give up to Lottie in everything. Never in her life before had she felt so often angry and vexed. It was quite a new discovery to her that she really had an irritable temper.

Hardest of all to bear, however, was the boys' treatment of Edwin, though they did not really mean to be unkind. They could not understand—strong country lads that they were—how the little delicate orphaned boy, unaccustomed to companions of his own age, shrank from their rough play, and dreaded their approach. No one but Charity had an idea of what he suffered, and even she was hardly aware of how far it went. She knew that they teased him, and laughed at him, but she did not know how constantly it was done. Midsummer holidays had begun not long after their arrival, and George and Wilfred had in consequence full liberty to do what they liked.

One day, Charity and Lottie had been working together for some time in the garden, when the former fancied she heard a slight and distant cry of distress. Was it Edwin's voice? She started up, with flushing cheeks, and Lottie looked at her in surprise.

"What is the matter, Charity?"

"I thought I heard Edwin call out. Where can he be?"

"Having a game of play, most likely. How frightened you always are about that child!"

"There it is again!" Charity exclaimed, as she dropped her work and flew in the direction whence the sound proceeded.

Once or twice she heard it repeated, and at length, on coming in sight of a small plantation, she saw Edwin with his cousins. He was standing by a tree, looking pale and frightened, while George and Wilfred were laughing loudly. What they were doing Charity did not pause to consider. In another moment she had rushed past the elder boys, and had thrown her arm protectingly round her brother—her poor little fatherless Edwin!

"Here comes Charity to spoil the fun and coddle her baby!" said George, with a tone of contempt. "I say, Charity, you had better leave him to us. He's too old to be spoiled and coddled, and we are going to cure him of his babyish ways."

"'Charity suffereth long, and is kind,'" breathed a little voice in Charity's heart, but indignation at their daring to treat Edwin so was the strongest, and facing the boys with crimson cheeks, she said resolutely, "You shall not! I won't have you do it! You are unkind, cruel boys, and I shall tell Aunt Lottie about you."

"Tell her—tell her by all means," said George, laughing. "Mamma doesn't approve of spoilt children any more than we do." He laid his hand on her arm as he spoke. "Now, Miss Charity, please to walk off, and don't interfere. We are not going to hurt him, but he is to do as he is told."

"What do you want him to do?" asked Charity, clasping Edwin tightly.

"Never you mind. We won't do him any harm."

Poor little Edwin's tears began to fall. "Oh, Charity, 'don't' let them," he sobbed. "I can't—I can't—"

"What do they want you to do, Edwin?"

"To climb that tree, and take down the nest. I can't climb—and—and—I can't take the nest. 'He' said he hoped I never should."

Well Charity remembered her father's strong feelings about the cruelty of birds'-nesting. "You shan't do it, Edwin," she said, resolutely. "If George and Wilfred like to be cruel, they shall not teach you to be so."

Had her look been more gentle, her tone less angry, they might have yielded. But they were excited by her manner, and George laid hold of her arm to pull her away, unaware how rough was his grasp. Charity in her turn burst into passionate tears.

"Don't!—You hurt me!" And in her anger she sobbed out words for which in her cooler moments she would be sorry. Even as she spoke them, she knew they were wrong, and checked herself.

Then, as she dashed away her tears, and glanced round, she saw her uncle on the grass at some distance. In her excitement she forgot her fear of him, broke away from George before he knew what she was about to do, and rushing after Mr. Hawke begged him in a choked voice to keep them from teasing Edwin.

"Who—George and Wilfred?" asked Mr. Hawke. "Don't cry, child! What are they doing?"

Charity gasped out an explanation, already almost repenting her haste. It happened that he strongly disapproved of birds'-nesting, and had forbidden his boys to attempt anything of the kind. Their disobedience procured them a severe rebuke, in the midst of which Lottie came up, and seemed to understand matters at a glance.

"Did you really ask papa to scold them?" she whispered. "I wonder you dared! They will never forgive you. I don't envy you now, Charity!"

Charity had no spirit to answer. Her anger was all gone now, and conscience was reproaching her loudly. What must Lottie think of her for being so easily overcome, after all she had said to her about keeping her temper?

Lottie made no remarks, but Charity fancied there was a look of quiet triumph in her face. Perhaps she was not mistaken. Lottie was fond of her cousin, but not with the Christian love that would have made her grieve over such a failure.

Edwin had escaped to his own room, and Charity was glad to leave her cousins and follow him. On the way, however, she passed the open door of the drawing-room, and her aunt's voice called her in. Mrs. Hawke was lying on the sofa, and motioning Charity to a seat by her side, she raised her hand to the child's heated face.

"What is wrong, dear?" she asked.

Charity hung her head.

"They have been teasing Edwin," she said. "And I was angry."

"I am sorry for that, Charity—sorry my boys could have been so unkind and unmanly as to tease a little boy like Edwin. And I am sorry, too, that my little niece was angry, for I do not think it could have done much good, and it certainly was not right."

Charity's tears came in spite of herself.

"It was wrong," she said; "I know it was."

"Will you tell me how it happened, dear?"

Charity obeyed, in a low tone, and with burning cheeks. She did not attempt to lighten the boys' misconduct, but she was still more careful to give a fair account of the temper she had herself shown.

Mrs. Hawke heard in silence.

"I do not wonder your uncle was displeased with them," she said at the close. "I am ashamed that they can act in such a manner. But still I do think that if you had spoken more gently, and 'asked' them not to tense Edwin, instead of declaring that he should not do what they wished, they would have given way. You know you are a little girl—two years younger than George, and boys do not like to be dictated to."

"I know I was very cross," said Charity, mournfully. "It seemed as if I could not help it."

"Did you seek for help, Charity?" asked her aunt, quietly.

"There wasn't time," said Charity, faintly.

"Charity, have you forgotten that beautiful birthday text that you showed me a few days ago?"

Charity shook her head.

"Do you think we should be told in the Bible to be kind, and tender-hearted, and forgiving, if it were out of our power to be so? I do not mean that we can do it in our own strength. But you know where we can obtain help."

"The Lord Jesus Christ," Charity whispered.

"Yes; He will always hear and answer the very faintest cry for help. One moment of time is enough to pray in. You know that beautiful hymn, which says—

"'Prayer is the burden of a sigh,

The falling of a tear,

The upward glancing of an eye,

When none but God is near.'

"There is always time for one glance upward, Charity."

"Yes—I know," said Charity. "I don't know what made me say that. I can't think how I could go into such a passion. I never did at home,—" and a sob cut her short.

"You had few companions there, and little to try your temper. There must always be more to bear when several children are together. Unless they learn to bear with one another, they can never be happy. You must not think, dear, that I am excusing your cousins, for they have acted very wrongly. But I do not believe they really meant to be unkind to Edwin. He is a timid little fellow, and they have always been strong and bold, so they cannot understand him."

"It's so hard to see them tease him. And he has no one but me to take care of him," murmured Charity.

"No one!" repeated Mrs. Hawke.

"Only you, Aunt Lottie. He is always happy with you, but he can't be with you always," said Charity, throwing her arms round Mrs. Hawke.

"And no one else, Charity, besides you and me?" asked her aunt.

Charity knew what she meant, but she did not speak.

And Mrs. Hawke added—

"There is One who can take more care of Edwin, and make him far happier, than either you or I can. Our dear Saviour loves little children, Charity."

Charity sighed.

"I wish I were more like that text," she said, after a pause. "I 'wish' I could 'suffer long, and be kind.' It isn't a good name for me."

"'Charity,' do you mean? Why should it not be a good name for you, dear? It only means love—love to God and man. True Charity 'must' 'suffer long and be kind.' If you love the Lord Jesus, you cannot help trying to serve and obey Him; and if you love your neighbour, you cannot but be kind and gentle to him."

"Everybody hasn't charity," said the little girl, with perhaps a thought of George and Wilfred.

"No; none have true charity but the children of God. And no one in the world has so much charity that he needs not to pray for more." Mrs. Hawke was silent a minute, and then said, in a low, earnest voice, "It is my deepest wish that your cousins may have this heavenly charity in their hearts. Will you pray that they may, darling, and that the beauty of it may be shown forth in your conduct and mine?"

Charity's kisses were her only answer, but more was not needed. They were interrupted, and Charity went away to think over what had passed. She could not feel easy until she had told the boys that she was sorry for having been so angry.

And though George turned away in silence, and Wilfred whistled contemptuously, she felt far more happy afterwards.

CHAPTER IV.

GEORGE and Wilfred were at no pains to conceal from Charity that they had not forgiven her for having drawn upon them their father's displeasure. They had almost ceased to tease Edwin, probably from a fear of arousing it again, but they had now turned their powers to the far from difficult task of "paying Charity out," as they called it. They felt pretty sure that it would be long before she would appeal to her uncle on her own behalf, readily as she had done it for the sake of her brother. In the presence of Mr. and Mrs. Hawke they did not venture to molest her, but at no other time of day was she safe from unkind remarks and jokes.

It was very hard to bear, yet Charity did bear it, and that so patiently that neither her uncle nor her aunt knew anything of what was going on. Lottie by turns grumbled at the boys for being so "tiresome," and wondered at Charity for "taking it all so meekly—" little thinking of the words spoken by our Saviour, "Blessed are the meek; for they shall inherit the earth."

But it was not from Lottie that Charity looked for help. It was to the Fountain of Strength that she went for assistance. And she never forgot her aunt's words,—

"There is always time for one glance upwards."

Many a time as she endured the boys' provoking words, with flushed cheek and unsteady lip, yet without a look of anger in return, they little knew of the mental "glance upwards" which was the secret of her gentleness. Few words are needed at such a time:

"Please help me to be patient, for Jesus Christ's sake," was often breathed up from little Charity's heart, and received its answer in the feeling of quiet peace which no unkind words could disturb.

It was not always equally easy. Sometimes they went so far as to make allusions to her home and father, and this always broke her down. Lottie found her on one of these occasions, sobbing afterwards most bitterly, and could not help remarking—

"Well, I do think, Charity, you are going almost too far. Of course one oughtn't to get angry, but if you are so very meek, and never say one word in answer, they will only grow worse and worse."

"Oh no, I hope not," sighed poor Charity. "If only they would not say such things—"

"As what George did—that Edwin had been quite spoiled by uncle, and you not taught to behave properly? Oh, I shouldn't care about that. What does George know about your home? They only say it to provoke you."

"And it does—that makes it worse," said Charity, sadly. "If I did not feel angry, I should not mind so much."

"If that is all, you may be satisfied, I should think," said Lottie. "You certainly bear it wonderfully. It almost provokes me to see you so quiet."

Charity shook her head.

"You don't mean it, Lottie. You know it is wrong to get out of temper. It is not like—"

Charity paused, colouring.

And Lottie looked curious. "Not like what?"

"I was going to say that it was not like the Lord Jesus Christ," said Charity in a low tone. "You know if we love Him, we must pray to be made like Him. Papa often said so."

Lottie looked at her in silence for some minutes.

"I wish I were more like you," she said. "'I' never can keep my temper when I'm provoked."

"But, Lottie, every one may. We only have to pray—and to try—"

"You can, because you are a Christian like mamma," said Lottie, abruptly, and the words sent a thrill of joy through little Charity. "I'm quite different."

"But you may be one too," said Charity, humbly. "You know the Lord Jesus has promised to cast out no one that goes to Him."

A lump seemed to rise in Lottie's throat. "I wish I could," she said. "I know I should be happier."

And then, drawing her hand away, she ran out of the room. But her cousin's words were not forgotten, and before long they bore fruit, though not in the course of a week or a month.

This little conversation was a great help to Charity, in her struggle to "suffer long and be kind," through all the boys' unkind treatment. Her hope and aim were to conquer them by kindness—not to "be overcome of evil," but to "overcome evil with good."

The task was a long one, requiring much patience and many prayers, but Charity did not despair of success, nor would she let Edwin despair. Often the poor little fellow shed tears of distress at the manner in which she was treated, and at his own inability to defend her. But Charity soothed him, and made him promise not to breathe a word of what passed to her uncle or aunt.

"If only I might tell Aunt Lottie," Edwin often said, "I'm sure she would have them punished."

"But I don't want them to be punished for me," said Charity. "I want to make them love me, Edwin, and then they will be kind. They would not dislike me so much if I had not been in such a passion with them, and asked uncle to speak to them."

"They oughtn't to dislike you," cried Edwin, indignantly. "It is very, very wrong of them. Oh, I do wish I were a great strong boy like George."

"I don't," said Charity, smiling. "I would rather keep you, my dear 'little' brother, than have a great strong one. Never mind it all, Edwin. In a little while, I think they will be kinder. You know 'Charity suffereth long,' and I haven't borne it long yet."

"I think you have—very long," said Edwin, sighing. "And you are always kind to them."

"No; I don't feel so, Edwin. I often feel angry, and I know it is wrong. But there is Lottie calling you, so you must run away."

A few days after this, the five children went to spend a long afternoon in a neighbouring wood. Lottie and her brothers had often been there before, but Charity and Edwin had not yet walked so far, and it was a great treat to them. The boys carried a basket full of bread and butter and plain cake. Charity was in better spirits than she had yet been since her arrival, and she walked lightly along by Lottie's side, enjoying the bright sunshine and the cheerful singing of the little birds, while Edwin ran about and shouted with delight. It was not that either of them forgot the past, or ceased to grieve for the dear father they had so lately lost. But they were both very young, and it was not surprising that at times the thought of their sorrow should be for a while banished.

On reaching the wood, a discussion began as to what path they should take. The boys declared for one, and Lottie for another. Charity's bright look was overcast as she listened to the hot argument that followed, and at length she whispered to Lottie—

"Couldn't we go their way, and come back yours?"

"No, we couldn't," said Lottie, pettishly. "It's too bad. The boys always want their own way about everything."

"You don't want yours, of course!" said George, meaningly.

"Not always, as you do. You ought to let Charity decide."

"Catch me doing any such thing," returned George, rudely. "Of course she would go your way just to provoke me."

The colour rushed into Charity's face. "No, I should not," she said, quietly. "Lottie dear, won't you come the boys' way this once, just to please me?"

The boys looked completely silenced, and Lottie annoyed.

"I don't care about the path," she said. "But I don't see why George is always to have his own way."

Charity said no more, but she looked beseechingly, and after a minute's wavering Lottie gave way, with an ungracious—

"Well, do as you like. I suppose we shall have to give up to them in the end," and she walked along the path in silent displeasure.

The boys eared little for the latter fact. They were only vexed at the manner in which they had obtained their will; for after the way in which they had treated Charity, it was not pleasant to feel that they ought to be grateful to her. They managed to keep clear of her until sufficient time had passed, as they thought, for it to be supposed that they had forgotten the matter.

If Charity was disappointed at their conduct, she had at least the comfort of an approving conscience. Lottie's annoyance soon gave way, and she and her two cousins hunted about for flowers, ran races, and played games, so merrily that George and Wilfred were ere long fain to join them, though it cannot be said that their presence added much to the pleasure of the others.

Five o'clock came, and the basket was opened, the contents being arranged upon a small cloth laid on the ground. They had a very cheerful "tea" as they called it, and then began to think of returning home. Another discussion now took place between Lottie and her brothers. This time Charity felt it to be only fair and just that the former should have her turn in choosing the homeward route. She kept her opinion to herself until asked for it, and then gave it very gently, but the boys were not a little vexed with her, as she could plainly see.

They gave way at length, but Charity soon found that her walk home was to be less pleasant than her walk there had been. First, the boys ran so fast that the tired girls could hardly keep up with them. Then they began throwing small pebbles about, and more than one came with a sharp rap against Charity's hat. Whether by accident or no she could not say, but she tried to believe it was, and to keep down the tears which threatened to rise, while Lottie grumbled and scolded in a manner that only made the boys worse.

A DIFFICULTY.

Presently they arrived at a very high, awkward stile, and the boys did not lose this opportunity of making themselves disagreeable. They went over first, and no sooner had Lottie with some difficulty scrambled to the other side, and assisted Edwin to do the same, than they rushed forward, seized hold of them and drew them away.

"Now we'll see," George exclaimed mockingly. "We are going to look on, while the agile, light-footed Miss Charity Mitchel gets over the stile. She was very anxious to come this way, no doubt to show off her powers, SO she shall make the most of her opportunity."

"I did not know there was any stile this way," said Charity, as she stood on the other side. "Please let Lottie help me, George. I have hardly ever climbed stiles, and I am sure I could not get over this alone."

"Then you'll have to stay there all night," shouted Wilfred. "It's to pay you out for choosing to come this way."

Tears came into Charity's eyes, as she again glanced at the four awkward crooked bars, placed so very far apart, and the long step that must be made on the other side down upon a narrow, unsteady plank of wood. If she missed the latter, she must have a fall of several feet into a deep ditch, and might hurt herself severely. Lottie saw the same, and was struggling angrily with her brother.

"Let me go, George! I tell you she is as likely as not to fall. Don't you know she hardly ever climbed a stile until she came here?"

"Then it's high time she should learn," responded George, holding her tight. "It's of no use you struggling, for you won't go to her till she is on this side. It's to teach her not to be so fond of interfering."

In vain Lottie fought, for George was far the stronger of the two. Edwin was in the same way Wilfred's captive, positively crying with distress at his helplessness. Charity could not bear to look on and feel that it was all on her account.

"Don't, don't, Lottie—don't, Edwin!" she cried. "I'll try to get over, and I daresay I shall manage it. Never mind."

She began to climb at once, though trembling with fear. It was easy to reach the top bar, and get half over it, but there she remained clinging helplessly.

"Step down, Charity," cried Lottie, eagerly. "You are quite safe; only take care to put your foot on the plank."

Charity caught her breath painfully and made the attempt. Whether she missed the plank, or whether she lost her hold of the bars, she never afterwards knew. But the next moment, with a terrified cry, she fell into the ditch.

Lottie screamed, and the boys rushed forward. With some difficulty George climbed down, and half pulled, half lifted her up upon the grass. She looked very white, and lay without speaking, while they all crowded round her, asking if she were hurt.

"I don't know," she tried to say, but her voice failed her. A kind of grey look came over her face, and her eyes closed. Charity had fainted away.

CHAPTER V.

"YOU have grieved me more than I can tell, boys! I could never have imagined such conduct on your part. From you, George, especially, it is disgraceful. I did not know you were capable of such cruelty towards a poor little orphan girl. I am ashamed of you."

It was late in the evening of the day on which the accident had occurred. Charity had been brought home in a cart, belonging to a farmhouse which stood near the place where she fell. Lottie, in her indignation, had poured out the whole story to her parents. The doctor had just gone after paying a long visit. And after his departure, Mr. Hawke came into the drawing-room, where the boys were sitting, with the above words.

George looked fully as much ashamed of himself as his father could have been of him. He sat with downcast eyes, without attempting to defend himself.

Wilfred fidgeted uneasily, and Edwin asked tearfully—

"Please, is Charity much hurt, uncle?"

"I am afraid she will have to lie down a long time, and bear a great deal of pain, my little man. But, thank God, it is nothing dangerous. Her ankle is very severely sprained, and there is a small bone broken, so that it must be a tedious affair. It is very sad, especially when we think of the way in which it has happened."

Poor little Edwin began to sob, and a hot flush came up into George's cheeks. He turned away his head, and fidgeted with the things on the table. But his father saw how nearly he was overcome, and this decided him to say no more just then. So he only remarked—

"If you will be a good quiet boy, Edwin, you may come and see her for a moment. Only you must not cry or do anything to excite her."

Edwin could hardly believe it was the rough, stern uncle, of whom he had been so much afraid, who was now clasping his hand, and leading him so kindly out of the room. There was silence after they had gone, till Lottie came in with red eyes.

"Well, George, I hope you think you have 'paid out' poor Charity at last," she said, bitterly. "She certainly won't be much in your way again for some time to come. The doctor says it will be weeks before she will put her foot to the ground. But I suppose you are glad to hear it."

Lottie stopped suddenly, for George had broken down, and was sobbing aloud.

Lottie was quite silent, almost dismayed at the effect of her words.

Wilfred jumped up and ran out of the room, and then she ventured to say—

"I didn't quite mean that. I did not know you minded it."

"I do," sobbed George. "It's dreadful, Lottie. I shall never be happy again until she is well."

"Perhaps she will get over it sooner than the doctor thinks," said Lottie.

"I don't know," was George's desponding answer. "If I could only see her, and tell her that I really did not mean any harm,—" and he sighed heavily, not only at the thought of having caused her so much suffering, but he could not forget the manner in which he had long treated her, and induced Wilfred to treat her. Still less could he forget her gentle forbearance, and "long-suffering," and "kindness."

But it was many days before he obtained his wish, and was allowed to enter her room. When the time came he began to think he would almost rather have stayed away, but he could not well draw back, so he went in and sat down by the sofa on which she was lying, with a shawl spread over her.

Nurse was present, but she left then alone, saying she should be in the next room, and George could call her if she was wanted. Perhaps she guessed what he wished to say.

"Charity, can you ever forgive me?" he asked.

"Oh, George, you mustn't talk like that," said Charity. "I forgave you long ago. I wish you would never speak about it again."

"I must," replied George. "You know, Charity, it was all my fault. 'I' thought of it, and proposed it to Wilfred, and made him do it. I can't think how I could have behaved to you in such a shabby way, when you have been so good."

"Not good," said Charity, quietly. "None of us are good, George."

"Then how was it that you bore things as you did? I can tell you that I often felt ashamed of myself. I did that day in the woods, but I tried to forget it."

Charity put her hand out to the little side-table by the sofa, and took up her birthday gift, the illuminated text.

"Look," she said, "I never showed you this, George. I always keep it hanging up on the wall, but I have had it down this morning. Papa gave it me on my birthday, that last birthday!" And tears came into her eyes.

George read the words in silence—"Charity suffereth long, and is kind."

"But I don't see how that can help you," he said.

"Charity means love," said the little girl, quietly laying it down on the table again.

"Well?" said George, still looking puzzled.

"It means that if we love God we shall pray to be made meek and kind like the Lord Jesus," said Charity, slowly. "You know that, George?"

George knew very little about it. He had been taught from childhood the truths of the Gospel, and knew many parts of the Bible by heart. But this was mere head-knowledge, which without the teaching of the Holy Spirit is of no more avail than utter ignorance. He looked gravely for a moment at his cousin's face, and then said—

"I think Charity is just the name for you."

"I wish it were," said Charity.

"It wouldn't do for me—I mean if I were a girl," said George.

"But it ought," said Charity, gently. "It ought to do for all God's children."

"I'm not," George began, and then stopped. After a pause he went on, in a lower voice, "I'm 'not' one of them."

Perhaps Charity had expected him to say so. A gentle, tender look came into her face as she said timidly—

"Won't you pray that you may be one, George?"

"I don't know how;" and the stout strong boy looked anxiously at his little cousin. "I should like to be what you are, Charity, and to be sure that I should not treat any one again in such a way."

Charity hardly noticed the last few words. "You must know how," she said; "you must know, George."

"I don't," George repeated.

"Aunt Lottie will tell you."

"I can't ask her. I want you to tell me. Nurse will come back directly."

Charity hesitated no longer, though she flushed as she laid her hand in George's. "You must go to the Lord Jesus Christ, and tell Him you are sorry, and ask Him to forgive you, and cleanse you in His blood. He will make you His child, and teach you all you don't know. I can't tell you any more, George. Only He has promised that all who believe in Him shall be saved."

Quickly and almost in a whisper the words fell from little Charity's lips. George listened in silence. Then nurse came back, and warned him that he must leave the room, as he had promised not to stay beyond a certain time.

He only bent over the sofa, and said, "Thank you!" very softly, before he went.

But little Charity felt very glad that strength had been given her to say so much.

For many long weeks she was confined to the sofa, from the effects of her fall. All through the bright, warm, summer days, she was obliged to lie quiet and still, or to move about very slowly for a few yards at a time, when she began to improve. But she bore it all without a murmur—without a word or look to show that she remembered who had caused her all this suffering.

George might, and often did, allude to it, but a remark on the subject never passed her lips, unless in answer to him.

Everything, however, was done to make her captivity to the couch a happy one, not only by kind Aunt Lottie and by Edwin, but by George, and Wilfred, and Lottie, and by Uncle Hawke himself. Charity had never expected to grow so fond of her Uncle as she did in the course of this summer. He was, for a long time, very much displeased with the two boys, and it was Charity who persuaded him to take them back into favour again, and showed him how much George had grieved over his conduct.

Indeed, George was now as much her friend as was Lottie, which is saying a good deal, and Wilfred and Edwin were almost always to be seen together. Little did Charity know how much of this happy state of things was owing to herself! Little did she think how often Mr. and Mrs. Hawke had grieved over their children's irritable tempers, or how grateful they felt to their little niece, whose gentle, forbearing spirit had, by God's blessing, worked so much good among them.

Had not Charity's prayer been fully answered—that she might have grace given her to "suffer long and be kind," in her new home?

THE END.

————————————————————————

Pardon & Sons, Printers, Paternoster Row, London.

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Table of Contents

CHARITY'S BIRTHDAY TEXT.

CHAPTER I.

CHAPTER II.

CHAPTER III.

CHAPTER IV.

CHAPTER V.

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